Oh The Places You'll Go!
by The Best of Luck
Summary: The son of Mr. Bishop, Courier Six is shot in the head without his memories. Vengeance on his mind, he tracks down the man who shot him. Mr. Bishop swears revenge on the Chairmen, vowing to destroy them while NCR and Legion continue to fight over the Dam. The Wrights continue their power play to wrest full control of New Reno and there's always Mr. House to worry about...


_Hello my fellow Fallout fans! I have come with you a new tale of Courier Six, but with a twist. Mafia drama mixed in with more politics and back dealing than you can shake a politician at. This came to me as I was going through my readings of other Courier Six fics and I just couldn't let go of this idea of the courier being the child of Mr. Bishop, who is the child of the Chosen One._

 _All of the Fallout games have connections. I wanted to take it from the direction that as the Chosen One was the Vault Dweller's descendant, the Courier is the Chosen One's descendant, though much closer in age than the former two. I wanted to explore about New Reno, NCR politics, along with how Mr. Bishop could expand his influence into the New Vegas area._

 _Please enjoy and tell me what you think!_

 **GOODSPRINGS, NEVADA**

He had never known what pain truly was until that night.

Yes, there had been the sparring sessions with his father, the stings from the radscorpions when they had went hunting after them and the occasional run in with the Wrights but he had never felt _this_ kind of pain.

The pain that you were about to lose your life for no particular reason at all. The pain of regret, of not settling your accounts before you went to meet the big man upstairs. He only hoped that when he did ascend or descend, he would meet an angel or devil with cans as big as their halos.

 _Fuck me._ The ropes were digging into his skin, too tight to give him any room to breathe. _They're also digging my grave,_ he thought ruefully, as he heard the soft plops of dirt pile up beside him. The Great Khan, some jackass with a bandana was arguing with the slick New Vegas guy, some bastard who he did not recognize.

 _I don't want to pull, do you know who my father is, but holy shit, this is the time to do it._ He couldn't, since he was fucking gagged and the fuckers had hit already once in the head.

"Man, just off him already and let's get out of here," the Khan advised and the New Vegas guy, the boss, shook his head like a mother shaking her head at her child. "Fuck man, we don't need to drag this on."

"Maybe Khans kill without looking the guy they're killing in the eye, but I ain't a fink, dig?" the man in the checkered suit admonished and the tied-up victim couldn't help but roll his eyes. _Fucker hit me in the head and didn't want to take on my sturdy shotgun. Hypocritical jackass._

Another Khan entered his vision, black mohawk streaked with dirt and grime. He wiped the sweat off his brow and leaned on the shovel. "Fucking grave's done. Can you get it on with already? I want to get paid."

"Hold your horses, pal."

"Man, just do it!" the bandana wearing Khan insisted. The checkered suit fucker held up a finger.

"You're crying in the rain, pally. I want to make this right, you dig?" the checkered suit man then gazed at his victim. "Well, rise and shine sleeping beauty."

The tied-up man went to say something, but he couldn't, as the gag was tied tightly around his mouth. The checkered man chuckled deeply, taking some kind of satisfaction in seeing this courier not being able to say anything.

"Like I said, just kill the guy and let's go," the bandana wearing Khan said again. The checkered suit fucker then glared at his companion, before rearing back and hitting him with the back of his hand. The shovel wielder stepped between them, eyes blazing with anger, but a suited goon with shades ( _why do you need shades, it's fucking dark, you twat)_ and a fedora shoved a Thompson in the man's back.

"Keep your mouth shut, unless you want to lose it," the checkered suit fucker and the bandana Khan held a hand to his cheek, retreating out of the tied-up courier's vision. "Frank, keep an eye on our 'friends' here."

The muscular goon nodded, his Thompson aimed. The checkered suit then swung back to the courier.

"Sorry to have you see our family squabbles, kid," he said before chuckling. He reached into his coat, taking out a poker chip. Realization dawned in the courier's eyes. _That's my fucking delivery. Supposed to go to Mr. House. I was getting paid for that job!_ He struggled a bit more against his restraints, but they were tied too tightly. Whoever tied him up should get a reward for it.

The checkered suit man held out the chip in the moonlight, observing it. "Now this? This is the thing that's gonna change the Mojave and New Vegas for good.

He then smiled brightly before putting it back into his coat and reached for his pistol. The pistol had an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a religious figure that was practically worshipped by some of the members of the New Reno mob families.

 _Also by my mother._ Regret began to fill his soul as he never got to tell his mother he was sorry. Cliché as fuck, but fucking hell, there was a reason why it was cliché. He would never get revenge for his sister, fulfill his promises for his father and never finish this job.

It was gold-plated as well, looking fancier than any weapon the courier had ever seen. Nickel finished, floral patterned, it was a good-looking gun, the courier had to admit. He would have admired it even, if it wasn't the gun that was going to end his life.

"Sorry you had to get caught up in this, kid. From where you standing, it seems like an eighteen-karat run of bad luck," the mob boss said without a hint of regret or sadness. The pistol leveled at the courier's head. "The truth though? Truth is, game was rigged from the start."

 _Of course. Cliché motherfucker._ His thoughts died as the pistol fired and everything went dark.

But before his hearing cut off, he heard. "A car? Never seen one. Know how to drive?"

 **SHARK CLUB, NEW RENO**

 **ONE WEEK LATER**

Mr. Bishop sipped from his whiskey, savoring the taste. It felt somewhat dirty drinking Wright alcohol, but there was no denying they made the best whiskey in all of Nevada. _Probably the only bastards who make alcohol in these parts._

He felt the itch again, to go out and explore. Came from his father, his mother had once told him, before she had died due to a jet overdose when he was sixteen, resulting in him sleeping with his now _ex-wife_ and the birth of his first child, a son. _Makes me proud every day,_ he thought before taking another sip.

The boy reminded him of himself. A love for exploration, fighting, and drinking. As smart as a Wright, deadly as a Van Graff, as resourceful as a Bishop.

His thoughts then became dark when he thought of Bruce Isaac. The asshole had taken five thousand caps and fled to the Mojave, which is one of the reasons he had sent his son to the area. The singer had also done things with Diane, things that he didn't want to repeat in his thoughts. _The fucker will pay. One way or another._

"Hey boss?" one of his men, Blondie, nudged him. "There's something you got to see. It's about Dante."

His ex-wife had been a fan of _Dante's Inferno_ and she had asked that they named him after the author. He had been so in love with her that he had did so without a hint of protest. He had named his daughter though. _Dante and Diane._

Fear then began to run through him. Was he okay? Was he hurt? Dante could take care of himself but a father worried, you know?

"What is it?" he demanded. Blondie shook his head and pointed to the surrounding crowds. Cursing himself for allowing himself to be controlled by his emotions, he downed his whiskey, letting the alcohol burn his throat, and excused himself from the bar. The Shark Club's new singer, though not as good as Bruce Isaac, was a pleasant background as the two made their way to the backrooms.

"What is it?" he demanded again. "What's this about my son?"

"Got a message from New Vegas. That package he was supposed to deliver?" Mr. Bishop went rigid. "He got shot in the head. Ambushed by Great Khans and some New Vegas type. Car's missing too. Looked like one of the Chairmen. Don't know which one."

Mr. Bishop sat down in a chair. "Get me a drink. Scotch damnit. And get me Keith Wright."

"Keith Wright? As in, head of the Wright family Keith Wright?" Blondie asked, eyes wide. Mr. Bishop glared at him.

"Did I fucking stutter?" and Blondie knew he had messed up. "Go get him! And…inform my ex-wife. She's his mother, she needs to know. And see if she will come after my meeting with Mr. Wright."

"You got it boss."

His second-hand man disappeared, leaving Mr. Bishop to his thoughts. _I can't believe it. My son. My only fucking son._ He looked at a photo of his family, before his wife left him and his daughter joined the Followers of Apocalypse and headed east. _Good thing I sent Beatrix with her._ He didn't want his daughter running into Bruce Isaac again.

His son was the only one who hadn't left him. His grandmother ran a school for the Wrights and wanted nothing to do with his life. _'Seen your grandfather do too many things and fuck with too many people to ever go back to that sort of life,'_ she had told him before severing contact with the Bishop family.

 _Wish you could have helped me through this,_ he thought, wondering if he would ever know who his father was. He had theories running from one of the goons who had ran with his grandfather back in the lawless days to the Chosen One. _As if granddad would let a tribal touch his daughter or let one of his dumbass mooks have fun with her._

"Fuck," were his simple words. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

That's when the door opened and came in Keith Wright, the head of the Wright Family and the most powerful man in New Reno. _Mayor too._ This man represented half of New Reno's businesses, all of its schools and churches, and three-fourths of its alcohol production. _A powerful man indeed._

"What do you want, Mr. Bishop? Your man came into _my home_ and asked for me. My mother almost took a Louisville slugger to his kneecaps before I calmed her down. This better be good."

Mr. Bishop knew that Keith Wright wasn't a violent man. Yeah, he had done some nasty things in the past, but he was a legitimate businessman. His hair was blonde, streaked with gray, a pale face, and he was thin, thinner than a man should be. Mr. Bishop could snap him in half, if it wasn't for the fear and respect he had for the head of the Wright Family.

"What do you know of the Chairmen?" he asked as Blondie came in with two glasses filled with scotch.

Keith looked at the glasses suspiciously. "Not enough, to be honest. Control the Tops, used to be a raider tribe before Mr. House civilized them. Buy a lot of my alcohol."

"One of them ambushed and shot my son in the head. My boy, _Keith,_ my Dante. The fuckers took his car too. They shot him without a hint of regret and for what?" Mr. Bishop downed the scotch in one gulp. "It's your own scotch. If you don't want it, give it here."

Keith pushed the glass towards him and Mr. Bishop drained it. His head began to buzz from the amount of alcohol he had consumed. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Bishop. But what can I do? I have no pull with the Chairmen nor the New Vegas Families. I'm struggling to keep my dominance here against the Van Graffs."

"You think I don't know that? I have no pull there either. But you have something that I don't have. Information. Connections. I want to know who shot my boy, who stole his car, and thought it was a good idea to fuck with the Bishops," he seethed with anger.

Keith looked at him. "And why should I tell you? You undermine me at every turn, oppose me at every possible opportunity. You nearly defeated me in the last mayoral election."

 _Damn it. "_ That was business. This is personal. I've never targeted any of your kids or your brothers, nor your mother. We fight, we hit each other, but that war is between us. And sometimes our kids, but they know not to kill each other. Someone ambushed my kid and shot him in the head. Killed him. He wasn't doing anything but delivering a fucking package. Those fuckers made it personal."

His opposite gave him a sympathetic look. "Alright, alright, you made your point. Reminds me of when I lost my brother, Richard. The day we wiped out those Salvatore fucks…that was a good day. I don't know what's it like to lose a child and I hope I never do."

Keith sat down on the chair opposite of Mr. Bishop. He sighed deeply, making the crime boss wonder what was going through the man's mind. "I'll tell you what. I got some contacts that are near New Vegas right now. The Pheebles, bunch of Brahmin farmers that want revenge on Heck Gunderson. I'll ask them to look around and see who's been missing from the Tops casino."

"Heck Gunderson? He's the guy who bought out the Mordino's last business, that Brahmin farm near Vault City, wasn't he?" Mr. Bishop asked. He wasn't very well-versed in _legal_ professions, though he had run across Brahmin Barons from time to time. _Wealthy guys who buy politicians. Would be mad, if I didn't do the same thing._ "What's he doing in New Vegas?"

"He's negotiating with the New Vegas Families. Over Brahmin prices, hoping to get them down and supply the place with beef. I don't know too much about it, but the Pheebles are an old couple. I'll send a messenger tonight. Should be in New Vegas in two weeks or so."

"Can't take the train?" Mr. Bishop said, perplexed. _There are trains heading west and south from New Reno. If there's one thing they NCR's good at, it's making trains run on time._

"No, they can't. NCR, those fuckers, had a little prison uprising in the region. Apparently, some politician thought it was a good idea to give hardened criminals dynamite in order to blast the new lines and they ended up taking over that part of the Mojave," and Mr. Bishop's heart fell. _I sent my son into that region._ "Control everything in between Primm and Goodsprings, my man in the NCR said."

"Christ."

"You got that right."

Mr. Bishop's eyes flamed with fury. "Thought the NCR was supposed to keep that region intact. Know the Legion's breathing down their neck at the Colorado, but a fucking prison revolt? First those fuckers can't get their currency right, then they can't get the Brotherhood under control, and then decided to expand into the Mojave. How the fuck did they ever get to control New Reno?"

"They've got a lot more manpower than we do," Keith said, before shrugging. "Was before your time and it was before I got into control. Doesn't matter. NCR is fucking up. A friend of mine's daughter is there, in the Mojave. Tough little cookie. I'll tell her to keep an eye out for your son. I know you got contacts in Primm, but she's a bigwig there and has got a lot of pull."

Mr. Bishop appreciated everything Keith Wright was doing for him. _But there's a price. There's always a price._

"What do you want in return?" Mr. Bishop asked and Mr. Wright's mouth spread into a wide smile.

"I know that you're still running guns to the Van Graffs here in New Reno. I want a portion of the profits. Thirty percent."

 _Doable. A lot, but doable._ Still, he had to haggle out of principle. "Twenty percent. Not a percent over."

"Twenty-five percent."

"Twenty-two."

"Twenty-three."

"Twenty-two and a half."

"Twenty-two and three quarters of a percent."

Mr. Bishop held out his hand. "Deal, you smug son of a bitch. Information is always a damned hassle, but it's well worth it."

"I'm glad. My people will get into contact with your people," Wright then got up from his seat and stuck his hand out. "I'm sorry about your son, for what it's worth. Hope you find the asshole who did it."

Mr. Bishop took the hand and shook it. "When I find him, there'll be hell to pay. Nothing on God's green Earth will be able to stop me."

 **GOODSPRINGS, NEVADA**

 **ONE WEEK AFTER GOODSPRINGS AMBUSH**

Doc Mitchell wasn't the religious sort. He believed in God, but not much else. He had been born in Vault 21, where people hashed out their differences through gambling. Then when Mr. House had come and won the concrete enclave he had called home, he decided to leave with his wife and son. That was one of three times he had prayed to God, asking him for his guidance in the aftermath.

His son, a doctor the same as him, had gone east with a group of Followers hoping to make a difference in those communities. He hadn't seen him for nearly twenty-five years. _He's a good man._ The second time he had prayed, he had prayed that his son would be successful in whatever he set his mind to. He had a feeling that whatever James did, he would make an impact.

When Victor and Sunny had come barging into his home, late at night, with a man bleeding from two gunshots in the head, asking him to fix him. He had seen the man, black hair caked with dirt and blood, bits of skull mixing with brain. When they had placed him on the bed and left, he had prayed then.

He checked on his patient once more. The man was breathing steadily, but still not awaking. Doc Mitchell knew that this man was the luckiest son of a gun who ever walked the Mojave. The man's armored vault suit hung above the bed, having been cleaned and pressed by Trudy. His weapons -a weathered looking pistol that fired 10mm rounds and a machete with a much wider blade than normal-were leaning across a Sunset Sarsaparilla crate.

On top of that crate was a grease gun, no longer functioning, while several chemistry sets adorned the desk nearby. Mitchell knew the man's name, Dante, and his occupation. _Courier of the Mojave Express, from a place north called New Reno._ He didn't know a lot about the place, but he remembered reading something about Reno in a book long ago.

 _Little Vegas._ He chuckled as he sat back on his chair, reading _To Kill a Mockingbird._ It was a good book, written during a time of racial tension and it taught a lesson to all of its readers. Never judge someone by their looks and respect all life.

He was reading about the trial for the twentieth time of his life when someone began to stir. On reflex, he reached for the laser pistol right under his chair, before realizing that it was his patient. The man breathed harder, sucked in more air, before green eyes blinked up at the ceiling fan circling lazily above him.

Mitchell chuckled again. "Well, you're awake. How about that."


End file.
